These days, more than ever, I’m following Mary Oliver’s advice and actively looking to be astonished and stand in wonder. The opportunities are there if you “pay attention”, and I need the counterbalance. So, I’m actively tuning myself to the joy channel, trying to notice and linger in such moments–this morning’s moonlight streaming through a frosty window…the daily sunrise…mist rising from the river as I cross the bridge on a frigid morning…the laughter of children reveling in the new fallen snow at recess…the steady warmth of the wood stove’s heat on my back as I write…so many small moments of wonder! And here was another one:
Taking the trash out on a January morning
I step outside into bitter cold into clear, clean air and a glow in the west The moon hides below the tops of snow-sugared pines and casts a diffuse light heavenward
In the east the sun rises in purples and reds smudged with charcoal clouds a canvas for the stark elegance of winter trees
After hoisting the trash into the bin I turn carefully on the ice coated driveway west to east, moon to sun and then again east to west, sun to moon
Lying in my nest of blankets, I imagined piles of snow draping the garden, layered upon the table like a huge dome of frosting on a cake. Did we have a foot? More?
I already knew we didn’t have school, so there was no need to get up and wait for a call. I closed my eyes and snuggled deeper, willing my body to fall back to sleep.
My mind had other ideas.
Maybe I should just go to take a quick look?
I’d deliberately left the outside light on overnight, in case I woke during the night, and wanted to take a quick peek from upstairs to gauge the snowfall. But I’d slept through and now it was morning. Well, sort of. Still, I could just take a look. But I know myself well enough to know that once I’m up and out of bed, I’m up.
“Go back to sleep,” I told myself. “The snow will still be there when you wake up!”
So, I tried. Really, I did. I lay there beneath the blankets, my eyes closed, sternly telling myself to sleep. I was warm. I was cozy. I was dying to know how much snow there was!
Finally at 4:03 I gave up. I couldn’t resist any longer. I had to know.
I reached for my glasses, put on my robe, and tiptoed out of the bedroom and into the hallway. Then I peeked out of the frosted window to the garden below. Mounds of sparkling white draped everything in sight. My eyes scanned the scene, utterly delighted by how the heavy snowfall transformed the world outside my door. It was absolutely beautiful– a generous gift from Winter, and one that was well worth getting out of bed early!
No matter how old I get, I simply can’t resist the lure of of a fresh snowfall.
Somehow January has flown by. I just realized that I haven’t managed to show up for Poetry Friday more than once. Yikes! That’s a trend I intend to break, so I’m showing up a day late to the gathering.
I love when Pádraig Ó Tuama reminds me to try out a pantoum (here). His formula always yields interesting results. He says to write 8 lines, number them and put them into this order: 1,2,3,4 2,5,4,6 5,7,6,8 7,3,8,1. Then he says, “As lines repeat, feel free to punk them up a bit.” So here’s my pantoum-ish poem:
New Year’s Day
I forgot to watch for the first bird I watch the snow fall instead The trees shiver, draped in winter white and we have eight blue birds at the feeder
I watch the snow fall Even inside, the air by the windows is cold While blue birds come and go from the feeder my pen stumbles and starts
The air by the windows remains cold As the moon descends, the sun peeks over the horizon My pen stumbles and starts The stack of firewood is getting low
The moon has disappeared: the sun peeks over the horizon The trees are graceful, draped in winter white The stack of firewood is getting low I forgot to watch for the first bird
Winter’s grip has been fierce in recent weeks. Most days the temperatures struggle to get into the twenties, and that’s not considering the wind-chill. Usually, I can lean into the beauty of winter, and take the cold days in stride, but the consistently below normal temperatures have been making that more challenging than usual. (I may have even complained once or twice.)
This past weekend my lovely, long December break was winding to a close, and I found myself chafing against the unrelenting cold and determined to get outside. I was yearning for an opportunity to do some early morning wandering, filled with fresh air and natural beauty. I knew that once school started back up, my opportunities would be much more limited. So, on Saturday night, the last “free” night, I made up my mind.
“I’m going to go look for snowy owls and walk on the beach tomorrow morning” I announced to my husband.
He looked at me askance. “What’s the temperature supposed to be?”
“I don’t know. Mid-high teens?” I paused and wondered if I should check the forecast more carefully. “You know what?” I said suddenly, defiantly, “I don’t care what the temperature is! I’m going!”
“Ok,” he said. “Wake me up early, and I’ll come with you.” (Wow! I guess we were both feeling a little bit claustrophobic!)
So, shortly after 7 on Sunday morning, bundled up as if heading into the tundra, we set out for the beach. We chose to head to one about an hour south, where snowy owls tend to visit. (Spoiler alert: we didn’t see any.)
When we arrived at the beach, it was snowing and other than a small cluster of birds, the beach was mostly deserted. Thankfully, there wasn’t much wind, but when we got out of the car, the cold slapped us in the face. I wondered if we’d made a mistake.
“Well,” I said, looking at Kurt, “if it’s too bad, we can just drive around.”
We pulled our hats down further and burrowed into our layers. I pulled my hood up over my hat and then tucked my fingers deep into my pockets, cradling two hand warmers . We walked down onto the beach, where the tide’s edge was marked with frozen slush. (You know it’s cold when salt water’s freezing! )
Thankfully, as we walked, we got a bit warmer. Well, a little bit.
Moving along the beach, we approached the flock of birds. Though, I’m not positive, I think they were sanderlings. They huddled along the shoreline, feet encased in bubbling surf, occasionally running a few feet ahead, but mostly standing still. Just looking at them made me even colder.
As we neared, they moved slightly away from us. They seemed a bit sluggish, decidedly less active than usual. One, slightly behind the others, hopped along toward the group, and something about its movement caught my eye.
“Oh, no,” I said, “Do you see that? I think something’s wrong with one of its legs. It looks like it’s only using one of them.”
“Well, a lot of them are only on one leg,” Kurt noted.
“Yeah, but this one only moved on one leg. Did you see it hopping?”
I struggled to catch sight of the bird again, amidst the others. From a distance, I still couldn’t be sure, but one leg looked different. Also, whenever this bird moved, it still hopped from place to place. The others scurried with both legs, and when they stopped, they’d tuck the other leg up, to keep it warm. We watched the birds for several minutes, and I took a few photos, but it was too cold to linger. We wandered away, moving further up the beach, and my attention drifting to other things.
Before long, we decided to call it quits. Our feet were cold, our cheeks vivid pink, and our noses were running. But, hey! We’d gotten some fresh air and we’d gotten outside. It felt like a victory!
Note: Later, when I got home, I was still thinking about that bird. I downloaded my pictures and when I zoomed in a bit, I could clearly see that the its leg was significantly impaired.
I’ve been thinking about it a lot since then. About endurance and survival. About how harsh life can be. It feels like there’s a message in there somewhere. I’m still waiting for it to land.
This month our Inklings challenge came from Catherine Flynn. She invited us to write a poem beginning with either “This is January” or “January.” My thoughts immediately turned to John Updike’s poem “January” and it’s first stanza, which eloquently sums up what our days are like during a Maine winter:
The days are short, The sun a spark, Hung thin between The dark and dark.
Inspired by this poem, I first tried writing some rhyming verses, but that fizzled out pretty quickly. Then, when I woke early on New Year’s Day, it was snowing. It was unexpected and oh, so lovely.
January
begins with the slow hush of snowfall dark skies brighten with lacy flakes tracing their earthbound migration
I’m hoping for many tranquil, peaceful moments for us all during this coming year.
Catherine is hosting the Poetry Friday Roundup this week at her blog, Reading to the Core, and you can read her response to the prompt there. If you want to see what the other Inklings did with this challenge, click on the links below.
Nix the comfort zone 